Out Of The Bell Jar
by Sectumsempra11
Summary: But while there was still a chance, while she still held onto such a fragile, broken thing, she wanted to have hope that it would still work. That by some miracle, she could bring herself back from the brink of death. She was a woman of desperation. She was Narcissa Black. Short montage of Lucius/Narcissa. NSFW ending.


"_You think I'm not a goddess?_

_Try me. _

_This is a torch song._

_Touch me and you'll burn."_

Sylvia Plath

There would never be another moment like this. The anticipation hung thick in the air like cotton ball clouds. Clouds that were stuck in her throat, dry and raspy. She cleared it, took a deep drink. Choked. She held back the increasingly desperate cough that clung in her throat and sucked in air through her nose deeply. Her throat was burning, mouth thick with salvia and the harsh coating of red wine. Her heart began to beat, and she slowly stood up. She had meant to be gentle about it, to collect her robes and slowly slide the chair back and go into the foyer. But there was a harsh scraping, a sudden clumsiness overtook her. She bumped her hips against the oak table, jostled food and drink piled high onto it. People were looking, watching, marveling. Guffawing at the scene that Narcissa Black was creating. She was very narrowly on the brink of a kind of social suicide. With what little fineness she could muster, she scurried from the table and turned her back on the eyes following her curiously.

The heavy door shut behind her with a thud and she heard a roar of celebration and clapping. The moment was gone—in mere seconds she had missed it. She touched her forehead and thought she felt feverish. She glanced into the deep darkness around her and felt a cool breeze hit her suddenly, as if a door had opened somewhere. She went toward it, seeking out this small nuance in an otherwise lonely room. Her footsteps echoed, light patters of shoes against hard, well-polished stone. She lit the tip of her wand, carefully holding it against her chest, fingers clasped tightly. Her body was a wreck of nerves and exhaustion. Her head was aching from the severe braids and pearls strewn through her hair and her dress robes were cumbersome, a wide flowing skirt with a train and puff sleeves that made eating and drinking nearly impossible. She looked beautiful, the way most things adorned with painstaking detail were.

Cold air swelled around her again as she heard a door slam up the stairs. Her feet roughly hit the first of the marble staircase. There was an exhaust of air slipping over her now, cooling her body, but leaving her bones rigid and aching. She glanced over her shoulder at the light seeping in from the main hall where all of the guests had converged. They would hardly miss her. She pulled her robes above her ankles and went up the staircase timidly, shivering.

It was well lit on the next floor. She extinguished her wand and dropped it to her side. Then she saw it; at the very end of the hall was a large paned window thrown open haphazardly, curtains billowing and flattening on the sides. Narcissa couldn't understand how she would have felt it from downstairs, but she stepped forward. She could hardly imagine why it would even be open in the first place; it hardly even seemed warm in the rest of the manor. The main hall was burning, broiling hot, but with so many guests and so many chandeliers so brightly lit it was understandable. She tucked her wand into her robes when she reached the window and put her hands up to close it, when it shut with a hard slam for her. There was a sudden muffled cry from outside of the window, as it the noise had shaken someone just beyond it.

Narcissa could hardly hear them, but the thought occurred to her that they might have been conversing in private, and seen her looking. They might come after her. Part of her panicked. She looked around her for a place to hide, but they might check each of the various rooms winding down the corridor. She whirled around and went up the next set of stairs. These were longer, narrower and spiraled. She was panting heavily by the time she made it midway up. Upon looking down, she felt slightly nauseous, seeing the flickering lights of the candelabras on the wall. The seeping cold had returned to her in the staircase. Her thoughts were howling, her heart was scratching at the walls of its cage in terror. She coughed, lungs heavy, and went up the stairs again. Her calf muscles were shaking and thudding painfully. When she reached the top, she collapsed onto her knees to rest. Her wide skirt and train crumpled around her, the delicate silk was crushed into wrinkles.

The room around her was a library. An entire floor opened up to a massive sprawl of shelves, sectioned off into two floors. A balcony of books went across three quarters of the room, stopping only by the entrance with staircases on each side for easy entrance and exit. The cold air. She felt it lightly on her cheeks. She lifted her head once her breathing was steady. She pulled out her wand and lit it, as the library had suddenly descended into a dark coldness. She wrenched herself up, nearly toppling over back down the stairs from the weight of her clothing. Narcissa felt immense gratitude for the darkness, which hid her utter incompetence.

Narcissa felt a blast of cold air against her neck and she was reinvigorated.

Each huge, towering shelf fell behind her in a blur. She focused solely on the air and where it was coming from. Nothing crept from the deep shadows at her. She came to a startling halt as she met the source—a set of balcony doors thrown open in anger, one splintered and broken off its hinges. The moon glittered across the deep gashes of broken glass on the floor. And a figure deep in shadow, shrouded completely except for a halo of white blonde hair, stood at the railing. He was leaned over it, arms taught against the marble. He looked half-near collapse. His breathing was forced, like he had forgotten and had to remind himself to draw each and every painful one.

She forced herself into the shadows when he suddenly swiveled. His hair was loose from the low band he kept at the nape of his neck. She could not see his face as he whisked by her, crushing glass underneath his feet. She waited until she no longer heard his footsteps and then she carefully arranged her skirts and feet around the glass, and stepped onto the balcony. The moon was blazing above her and the world fell silent around her, except for the wind, which picked up the moment she found herself where the man had only just stood. She put her hands where his had been, as if to feel the warmth he'd left behind, but there was nothing but the screaming sky, exploding with the light of the stars, and the map of broken glass around her. She turned her head up to the sky again, watching the stars blink in and out of existence. She wondered if the world was enough.

She found him downstairs with the grandest gesture of politeness she had perhaps ever seen. Hands clasped behind his back neatly, hair perfectly arranged and silky smooth. She thought that she would be satiated to see him down here, back to normal, the way she had always seen him, but she wasn't. Her feet were moving. Her body was buzzing electric. She was about to crash into his life like no other ever would.

"Dance with me."

They were the first words out of her mouth. They came out in a rush. She failed to curtsey. She didn't ask. He wouldn't oblige her because they were the rules.

"What?" she demanded, as he gave her stunned silence, "Are you afraid you'll disappoint me?"

She bristled defensively. She had expected a polite decline. She had a response for that. She knew what to do in that situation. Silence wasn't allowed.

"I would be so inclined to dance with you," he responded somewhat meekly, "if your insistence is so great."

Triumph. She felt a shred of confidence overrule every emotion in her body. She turned her shoulder to him and went to the dance floor. How embarrassed she would be if he remained rooted, but when she turned her head to look at him over the shoulder, he was just behind her, somewhat dumbstruck.

She held her arms up for a waltz. His hand slid over the fabric at her waist until he took her with a firmer grip. When their hands touched, an electric shock passed through them. A small _zap_, surprising but not painful. His fingers blended in with hers. He held her hand tense, rigid in form, but she felt against her own that his fingers were shaking. He was a proper dancer, unlike some of the males in their circle. She knew from the first step that his dancing had become effortless from so many hours of practicing. She could imagine that easily, a small boy, eyebrows knitted tightly together as he fumbled and fumbled through the steps. An age would pass before he ever became fluid. One day he would take the first steps and everything would fall into place. Then he would wreck his first real dance because of his nerves, but after that first it would be nothing. Partners would pass through his hands and he would scarcely ever remember their names. She knew that because they had danced hundreds of times, maybe more, and not once had he ever remembered her. How many times had she smiled politely and said her name with a soft, girlish lilt? _Narcissa_. And how many times had he apologize profusely? _Miss Black, forgive me_, he always said_._ He never gave a reason for why he couldn't remember her.

The music came to a slow stop. She knew he was miles away from this dance hall. His body knew when to stop autonomously; each dance pattern from beginning to end was memorized, etched into him by now. He stopped, but did not let her go. He was looking just above her, at the towering windows above them, windows that scaled all the way to the ceiling. Magnificent glass, showering the room with moonlight barely noticeable from the deep glow within. A dance picked up around them, and reflexively he moved with her again. Narcissa flicked her eyes around them then, wondering if anyone had noticed their pause. A second dance with the same man wasn't allowed. She had a full card this evening, filled with potential suitors, of which never held her interest for longer than a moment.

She suddenly forced them away from the center. He didn't object to her sudden direction of the dance, but he objected when she tore them from the dancing entirely. He stopped, as if he was so well-trained to stay rooted where he had been told that deviating from it took a great deal of physical effort. He crossed that barrier. She swept open the heavy foyer door and found herself once again in the darkness, but he was there with her. He knew this better than she. His hand was in hers. He guided her out the main doors. A fountain in the entryway was spritzing. The wind picked up around them, swirling her skirts. She felt part of her braid come loose.

Their eyes met for the first time since she'd pulled him from his thoughts and onto the dance floor. His expression shifted.

He began, "Forgive me…"

"Don't pretend you remember me," she replied coolly.

He seemed unable to respond to her directly. His eyes fell from hers.

"You brought me here," he said, "What did you need?"

She wanted to tell him about the rattling breaths in her chest. The way each one felt old and painful. She wanted to tell him about how enveloped in the cold she was—how the only sound around her was the wind and their voices, echoing over and over in her head. She wanted to tell him that she coveted his strength. The way he pulled his emotions back from his face, composed himself into a gentleman. She wanted to tell him how awful it was to feel this much.

"What is your name?" she asked, anger thumping madly through her.

He laughed and shrugged. "Lucius Malfoy."

She narrowed her eyes. "Mine is Narcissa Black."

"Yes," he replied, nodding his head.

"Now try not to forget it," she snapped.

She shouldered past him, knocking him away from her, and went inside. She threw the doors to the main hall open in anger. She picked up the first flute of wine she saw and drank it in its entirety. Their world would look upon her with scorn one day. It was inevitable, she understood that. Her family name was dying. Too many blood-traitors to keep up with the powerhouse Malfoy family. But while there was still a chance, while she still held onto such a fragile, broken thing, she wanted to have hope that it would still work. That by some miracle, she could bring herself back from the brink of death. She was a woman of desperation. She was Narcissa Black.

* * *

><p>Bellatrix cradled her head in her hands, a lush of black curls falling over her face. The parlor was silent except for the occasional flutter of the pale curtains in the sweet morning breeze. This was not the first time the house had seen sadness, and it would hardly be the last. In fact, this very moment of torment for Bellatrix had occurred often, perhaps at least twice a year since she had come of age.<p>

"Andromeda climbed out of her window last night to elope with a muggle," Mr. Black said, "It was inevitable, and it will cost this family a great deal. So, we have opted to consolidate our losses and see what we can make from this tragedy."

Bellatrix's eyes were hollow, dark and flashing. "Send an owl to the Malfoys, certainly they would be able to help restore our reputation. Get them to agree that Andromeda died, or she lost her mind and no one would question it…"

Her father laughed, but it was gentle. He was not a cruel man, just a failure.

"Then what am _I_ supposed to do?" she demanded, "I know this is what it comes down to."

Mr. Black sighed heavily. He stretched his palms out in front of him and unrolled the scroll he'd perhaps spent most of the evening writing and rewriting, though this final version was neatly polished.

"There are two sons in the Lestrange family," he began.

Bellatrix sank against the back of her chair. She pushed the heavy strands of hair out of her face and covered her mouth with her hands in despair.

"Of course, you'll be able to meet them first," he said kindly.

Narcissa looked at her mother, who was grimly watching her hands. Every once in a while, emotion seemed to come over her and she quickly blinked it away. She thought of the window, so far down the corridor that had slammed shut before she could do it herself. It became clear to her that if Bellatrix, charismatic and wildly popular Bellatrix, was doomed to a fate unworthy of her, an even worse life would be made for Narcissa. She could not let that happen. The room felt constricted. She could hardly breathe. She could let the windows of the world close on her or she could shatter them.

The boys were masked, but they sought Bellatrix out at the last ball of the summer; it was so hard to disguise her unruly hair. The Masquerade. The Malfoy family had hosted it for centuries; their home was perhaps the best suited for it, with high vaulted ceilings and stone walls and stone floors. It looked like a castle. Ancient but emblazoned, beautiful tapestries hung from the ceiling. Narcissa was tense from nervous anger coursing through her. She found Mr. Malfoy talking amongst a group of adults with his wife beside him. She began a slow move across the room toward them, slipping by the bodies and skirts around her.

"Forgive the interruption," she said, altering her voice some.

She dipped into the best curtsey she could muster.

Mr. Malfoy was amused by her. The smile spread across his face, but he couldn't recognize her from the masks adorned with beautiful pearls. She could have been anyone beneath this richly decorated, somewhat flimsy piece of fabric stretched across half of her face.

"I'm searching for Lucius Malfoy," she said, somewhat insistently.

Mrs. Malfoy leaned against her husband. She held up a finger toward the garden. "I think you'll find him getting some air. I saw him take leave from the dance floor only moments ago. He can't have gone far."

She curtseyed again and left them. A man opened the door for her to the gardens, but she ignored him. She stepped onto the veranda. It was empty from what she could tell, unless there were lovers in the hedgerows. He was there, walking slowly by the fountain in the center. He liked his peace; she could see that he was not a very social man.

"This seems as good a place as any to find you," she announced.

She remained upon the veranda, for the lighting was best here. Brilliant gold shimmered across her shoulders, illuminating her in both light and shadow. Lucius turned in surprise. The effect was promising. He hardly reacted to her graceful pose. His eyes barely took note of the way her hair was arranged or the delicacy of her robes, but he was surprised by her sudden appearance.

"You were looking for me?" he responded, turning.

He walked toward her slowly and she tilted her head, drawing herself up to her full height. He remained at the bottom of the steps so that she stood over him.

"No," she said, smiling coyly, "and yet I found you anyway."

She lifted her skirts and walked onto the garden path beyond him, wishing to see the fountain for herself. His footsteps were behind her. He walked at a comfortable distance behind her. The rows didn't allow for him to walk next to her; the skirts around her were far too wide.

"You like the silence," she stated.

She came before the fountain. Etched into the hard stone were Mr. and Mrs. Malfoy's names and their wedding date. She wondered if it was a happy memory for them. She thought perhaps to place the fountain at the center of the garden suggested it was a match made of love, or one that evolved into it. To be born into a home of love. Narcissa knew her parents at least respected one another, however she had not seen love between them. They were old friends united with the same problem. The problem of daughters.

"Are you afraid to speak with me?" she asked him, since a few moments had gone by with no remark from him.

"Forgive me," he said, "I have no idea who you are—there's a mask across your face."

Part of her laughed because he could never remember her in the first place, and another for forgetting what she was wearing. A mask or none, Narcissa remained virtually invisible anyway. At least she would be for some time. She knew what was happening. The moment her sister was betrothed, they would find someone for her. They would announce her sister while frantically searching at the bottom of the list for their youngest daughter.

"There is one upon yours as well," she told him, "but I knew you immediately."

He was confused by her. There was very little curiosity. Perhaps he could not understand why this woman whose name and face he could never recall would talk to him so often. Each encounter seemed familiar, but still foreign to him. Narcissa could take these odds.

"I apologize," he murmured, inclining his head toward her.

"I'm hardly insulted," she admitted.

He bowed to her; he wanted to take his leave from her. Every response was perfect. He was conditioned so well to respond to her. She could probably predict everything he would say. _Forgive me_, _I apologize_, _excuse me_. They meant nothing really, they were just words. He only ever attempted to fix what wrong doing he had committed against her, for she always told him about them. Somehow, Lucius Malfoy was the most powerful man she knew, but could only express gratitude toward her.

"Excuse me," he said, "I must return to the ballroom."

A half-smile crossed her face. She twisted her hands behind her back and walked around the length of the fountain. There were wild flowers in the fountain. Someone threw them in for wishes. Flowers plucked from the garden, no doubt. Vandalism. It was less insulting than throwing galleons into the richest family's fountain.

"Of course," Narcissa said, turning her back to him for a last glance at the spritzing water. She turned her attention back to him. "After all, you must."

Lucius snorted. She raised her eyebrows in surprise. A chink in his armor? Narcissa smiled. She did believe she had found it after all. "Allow me to be frank," he spoke, his voice going cold, "I have experience with suitors; you're hardly any different from every other young, beautiful, pureblooded woman in there. I can see the appeal, the power, the money. The glory even, for marrying a Malfoy. I am flattered, but not moved by you. Coy as you are, devilish as you might be, I'm no more interested in you than I am watching the grass grow."

"Would it not be prudent to make my identity known to you if I intended to seduce you?" she said, closing some of the distance between them. She thought of his shaking hands clasped against his. She wanted more than that—she wanted his entire body erupted in electric nerves. She wanted him to be devoured by the anticipation of her. "Call the women in our society what you will, but stupid is certainly not one of them."

"True," he said softly, "There is a brilliance in being cunning, no doubt. Genius in knowing the exact shade of blue to set off your eyes, sure, and arranging your skirts in such a way that when you walk, you look nothing short of a goddess. But I know better. You are not a goddess."

"You think I'm not a goddess?" she asked him teasingly, and then she gently whispered, "Touch me and you'll burn." She was near enough to reach out to him. She could smell the perfumes of soaps along his skin, the fresh smell of his robes.

"I'm not interested," he said coolly.

"Who are you convincing?" she asked, "Yourself or me?"

He scoffed and turned his back on her. She shrugged uncaringly. She plucked a flower blossom from one of the hedges next to her and crushed the blooms in her palm. She tossed the broken thing into the fountain behind her. She waited a few moments until he had gone inside and disappeared into the party, and then she went back inside to dance with the faceless strangers, prospective suitors just the same, but there was a great deal more mystery to be had when she hardly had any idea who anyone was. She thought perhaps people cheated by putting spells on to confuse their facial features, to blend more. Her mother had certainly made _her_, so she had no doubt that there were others doing much the same.

The food table beckoned her by the fabulous array of delicious desserts and appetizers. She walked up the length of the table and back again before she made her choices. She accepted a flute of elderflower wine and searched the dance floor. He was there, dancing expertly, guiding a red head across the floor. He was spinning her much too quickly, she noted. It was obvious from her vantage point, but perhaps not to him. When the music stopped, she was dizzy. The girl teetered off and fell into the arms of a fortuitous man, who snatched her up into another dance with an eager, wolfish grin. He was searching, looking amongst the other dance partners. He had only seconds before he was approached for another. How many dances did he do each night? How many women passed through his arms hopefully without ever gaining his attention? He found her standing by the food table and she turned her head, hiding a smile.

A brunette intercepted him. His polite demeanor whisked him away from her. Narcissa felt a bump, an arm on her elbow.

"Why are you not dancing?" her mother hissed into her ear. "Quit _stuffing_ yourself and present yourself to the gentlemen on the dance floor."

The brunette attached to Lucius Malfoy spun into the arms of another male partner, and in that second he turned away and left to come find her.

"As you wish, mother," Narcissa replied, "I'll do so immediately once the music stops."

She turned away and went toward the table again, selecting more wine. She picked up the glass and turned just in time to find Lucius behind her. A wisp of hair had fallen across his forehead. Unceremoniously, she handed him the glass of wine.

"Do you need more convincing of your utter disinterest?" she asked.

"Yes, I suppose I do," he replied curtly, taking a drink.

"By all means then. Shall I start this encounter, or shall you?"

"What is your name?" he demanded, "You've piqued enough curiosity for that, though I suspect I'll soon be satiated upon that discovery."

She swirled the light, golden liquid around in the glass before she took another drink. Her body was humming lightly, the golden blobs floating above their heads seemed brighter. "Have you forgotten the rules? This is a Masquerade, Mr. Malfoy. Why, _you're supposed to guess_."

"You knew me immediately," he said, "that hardly seems fair."

She shook her head and drank the rest of the wine, and then replaced the flute on the table. It disappeared and replaced itself with a fresh, full glass. "I disagree. I guessed your identity, therefore I won the game. It's not my fault you are incompetent."

The remark stung him, though she knew it had less to do with the abuse and all the more to do with the shock of being insulted. Indeed, it took him quite a bit of time to recover, and once it seemed he had he was forced to start all over again at the sound of her laughter.

"I think I might have found the most insufferable person in this entire room," Lucius said at last.

She stifled laughter with her hand upon her lips. "Then I suppose you have your first clue to my identity, don't you?"

"I demand to know," he said, "Otherwise I'll assume you're some sort of half-breed or a journalist that snuck in."

"I guess you'll find out after this last dance," Narcissa said, casting her eyes across to the groups lining up for the final dance.

He exhaled airily and took her the elbow to lead her to the floor. He practically wrenched her through the crowds of people that were mingling, hoping to fetch a dancing partner before the music began. There was an unfortunate number of daughters in her generation and not enough males. Lucius lined up on the men's side and she stood across from him. She raised her palm to his and touched it against his—against the rules, but it was brief and then she pulled it away. The line dance was the easiest, but perhaps not the best for conversation. The music struck its first chord and they began weaving in and out of the other partners, looping across the lines they'd formed. His eyes met her at each turn, their hands almost touching. There was a great deal of _whooping_ and laughter. Children were dancing with them. A small boy tripped over a woman's skirt and broke the line. The little girl dancing with him glared, blushing with fury and embarrassment.

"Tell me," Narcissa said, after a few moments of silence. They blended in with several partners before she started speaking again. "What does the powerful Lucius Malfoy do," she paused again and waited until they were at the end of the line. Their hands were rigid, untouching. His pale eyes were intensely grey, cold steel looking back at her expectantly. "when he is not rejecting suitors?"

The music stopped and he bowed to her. She curtseyed in return. There was an eruption of applause from the dancers themselves and those watching. In the midst of the ruckus, Lucius gave her his full attention.

"I read," he replied, smirking.

"You don't say."

"You must remove your mask. It's nearly time," he said.

"Guess first," she demanded.

She knew he couldn't. He looked first at her hair and then into her eyes. He studied her jaw line. His eyes fell across her shoulder. He took in her height and stature. He was analyzing her by the genetics of all the families he knew so well. But he couldn't find hers.

"I haven't the faintest notion," he finally admitted.

Everyone began pulling their masks off. She slipped hers over her head in a fluid motion, as she had spent several hours practicing at the behest of her mother. There was no more recognition in his eyes than there had been before. He faltered at her name, her family. He couldn't produce it.

"My name," she told him gently, "is Narcissa Black."

"Forgive me, Miss Black—"

"Save it," she interrupted, "You say that every single time. Is it because I am a woman or do you simply choose to forget everyone you speak with?"

Lucius was calm. "I do not forget you on purpose."

"I asked you to try and remember me the last time we spoke," she told him, "I suppose you're incompetent at that too. Perhaps you should carry a Rembrall."

"Much in the way of Black family tradition, you lack manners in the extreme and more specifically tact," he said.

"And isn't it just invigorating?" she retorted.

Lucius paused for a long moment. The party had closed in around the dance floor. People were laughing, jovial if they won and guessed their partners or embarrassed that they had not guessed someone they saw often. They were the only still people.

"I cannot imagine forgetting you," he told her, "I've never had such displeasure in one evening."

Narcissa laughed. She wondered about his pleasures and displeasures, and hardly counted herself as the worst social injury ever inflicted upon him. "It would seem you forget me in your sleep in a desperate attempt to relive your _displeasure_ every single time you see me."

"You could do me the favor of not seeking me out," he said.

"I am not the one that sought you out, _Mr. Malfoy_," she said.

Hands were pressing in on her. She saw his mother and father behind him. Hers must have flanked either side of her in the same manner then. She wondered suddenly if they were drawing the attention of the other guests, arguing unabashedly as they were.

"I see our lovely children have made acquaintances with one another," Abraxas Malfoy boomed merrily. He was quite drunk and pink in the face. "After so many years, you've finally decided to cross paths!"

"And what a perfect night to have done so," her mother said, "If you'll forgive us, Master Malfoy, young master Lucius. I believe we are retiring for the evening."

Abraxas Malfoy offered a myriad of reasons for them to stay, all of which Druella Black graciously declined, complaining of a headache and an early start to the morning. They gathered in the main hall, where her father was waiting with their coats tossed over his arm. Her sister, Bellatrix, was standing by him with a deep frown. It was clear that she had met the Lestrange brothers and been sorely disappointed. They walked the length of the driveway to their carriage, and swept into it just as a steady rain began.

* * *

><p>There was nothing so close to heaven as a bookshop, and Narcissa had spent much of the afternoon perusing the shelves of <em>Flourish and Blotts<em> with a kind of uncontrollable wonder that she only felt upon entering a room full of secrets—hidden knowledge that she did not yet know. Her hair was a sheen of blonde down her back, loose and wavy from the braid she had slept in overnight. She clutched several fat, leather bound books in her hand and yet her eyes devoured the spines, examining the titles eagerly.

"Add these as well," she told one of the shopkeepers, thrusting the stack she'd produced mere moments after the last one.

"Of course, Miss Black," she replied politely, but when she turned her back to the young aristocrat, she grimaced.

She held a book on Herbology in her arms loftily as she scanned the titles in the potions section. At once it was ripped from her, and she turned to find the thief with a stricken expression.

Lucius Malfoy glanced over the cover and opened it to the index. He flipped to a particular page and read for a moment, a smirk upon his face.

"Miss Black possesses a curiosity for plants," he drawled. She reached for the book and he pulled away, tucking it behind his back. "Ah, no, I don't think so," he chided her, smiling. "I am most interested in your tastes. You'll indulge my curiosity, won't you?"

He had intruded upon something sacred.

"You followed me into a bookstore," she said, "That's creepy, not romantic. Now return the book to me."

"I'm somewhat of an expert on Herbology," he said, ignoring her, "It was my best subject, as you probably know. Some men might be flattered that you're trying to impress them with your unfounded knowledge and similar interests. I'm not, Miss Black." He looked at the book. When she reached for it, he raised it above her so that she could not reach it. "_Desperation_ is creepy, not romantic."

The ridiculousness of the entire situation was unnerving. She laughed. "I would expect nothing else than for you to assume every woman on the planet reading _must_ have an overwhelming desire to impress you."

He snapped the book closed and handed it back to her. She snatched it out of his hands.

"You would convince me otherwise, then?" he asked her lightly.

"What could possibly convince you to get your head out of your own ass, Mr. Malfoy?" she asked him with a sigh, "Certainly nothing that I have to offer." She lifted a thin purple book on healing elixirs from the shelf and placed it in her arms.

"You must be compelled to try," Lucius said, amused by her.

He followed her to the counter. She pulled the coin purse from her robes and made her purchases. She opened her small satchel bag and dropped the huge stack of books into it. There was a loud clatter from inside as the books fell into a larger confinement than the satchel would ordinarily offer.

"No, I'm afraid I'm much too disgusted by you to try and understand your complexities—or lack thereof," Narcissa said.

"I see you're no less venomous off of the dance floor," he said.

"I'm _bored_ by the very presence of you, Lucius Malfoy," she said, waiving him off as she opened the door into the bustling alley. "Good_bye_."

* * *

><p>She woke up to the sound of bells ringing outside of her door. There was a lot of rushing going on about the house. She heard her mother shriek one word as she ran up the corridor: <em>Malfoys<em>. Narcissa rolled her eyes. Pushing the hangings around her bed open, she went to her window and looked down at the doorway. Standing flush at the door was Abraxas and Lucius Malfoy. The door behind her opened with a flourish, slamming against the wall. Her mother was holding her wand above her head whenever Narcissa turned around.

"You must dress quickly and come downstairs," she said hurriedly, "Lucius Malfoy has called upon our house specifically for _you_."

"Send him away," she said, "I hardly slept last night and I am still not refreshed."

Her mother eyed her wearily and then sighed. "You want your mother to die young, don't you? For Merlin's sake girl, _get dressed_!"

She let every action drag into minutes. She exaggerated the difficulty of moving her limbs around the room to dress until her mother finally returned and threatened to use the Cruciatus Curse on her if she didn't leave her room. Narcissa dressed plainly and braided her hair. She was purposeful to make no real effort in her appearance.

He was immaculately dressed. Their juxtaposition did just what she wanted it to do. She greeted his father and then cast Lucius one of disgust.

"I come with a gift for you," he offered, producing a book for her, "A peace offering, you might call it."

"_The Venonmous Tentacula_," Narcissa read the cover and raised her eyebrows.

"A personal favorite of mine," he said, excitement rushing into his voice, "It's an exquisite plant, despite its danger. Perhaps because of its danger."

"Your peace offering is a book about a plant that could kill someone?" she asked, "You've very peculiar ideas about peace, Mr. Malfoy."

"But are you displeased with the subject?" he insisted.

She smiled lightly. "No. I can say with full honesty that I am not displeased by the gift." She looked up at him sternly. "But I do not accept your truce."

* * *

><p>His mouth was on hers hungrily, possessive with desire. There were buttons broken, hastily done as he unclothed himself. Lucius looked at the bedroom door nervously, expecting it to burst open at any moment. She touched his cheek and pulled him back to her. She hummed against him, pulling his hips against hers as she slid her legs up his thighs. He positioned himself and thrust into her for the and it overwhelmed him the same way each time.<p>

"Shhh," she pulled him close, kissing his lips, "You'll wake them if you make too much noise."

His entire body was shaking. His hair fell around his shoulders. She pressed her palm against his face while he gyrated against her. His breathing hitched, he sighed and kissed her. Their love making was the only sound in the darkened Black Manor. They were lovers all through the night and enemies in the morning. He climaxed beautifully and she watched, reveling in the way his body tensed, his gentle motions were sudden.

Lucius sank against her, his head resting against her shoulder. "Marry me," he said breathlessly.

"In the morning," Narcissa instructed, "It's my turn now."

He smiled and sat up. She brushed his hair back from his forehead, ran his hand through the long, wild blonde strands. He kissed his way down her body and she claimed him, circling her legs over his shoulders.


End file.
